By Dawn Moore
Special To The Courier
As reporters swarm the entrance to my offices at Mikimoto and police cordon off Rodeo as well as all four city blocks surrounding us at the Beverly Wilshire, I contemplate if this will be a day of business as usual or should I just toss in the towel now. I wonder if hotel staff ‘s palms have been well-greased by those that do those things to capture any opportunity for exploitation – a lipstick-smudged glass from sister Janet; a tear-stained napkin from mother Katherine; a half-eaten bagel from father Joe. Already, positions are being staked at the dumpster.
Blue and red lights flash from parked police motorcycles blocking the intersection, news vans’ satellite dishes bounce glaring white light into the venerable house of pearls while our creative display team mischievously ponders positioning white gloves in the gallery windows. (We don’t.) The ever increasing hum of generators and idling engines create a pervasive yet surreal “buzz” that the King of Pop would have relished. Staff, fans, reporters and unaware passers-by can’t help but tingle with anticipation in the hopes of capturing the first glimpse of a Jackson confidant or family member thru the tinted glass of the gleaming town cars starting to roll in.
The “lock down” has been swift and strangely quiet making Beverly Hills seem like a sound stage ready for it’s much-practiced role as support player in remembering one of this generation’s most controversial yet undeniably profound talents. An icon of 70’s youth and enthusiasm still admired and revered by millions worldwide, Jackson causes mass mania clearly in both life AND death, so my approaching day is tinged with a drop of ambivalence but respect and wonder, nonetheless.
The whirl of half a dozen helicopters punctuated by the intermittent trill of police whistles has announced the MJ mourners’ arrival. An endless motorcade of black limousines, town cars, Escalades, private buses and the occasional Bentley or Lamborghini files past the hotel valets; their occupants spilling out under the flagdraped port corcher then making a beeline to the restrooms. Apparently, the elegant black-clad guests preferred to wait for the facilities at the Beverly Wilshire to those at Staples center. Let’s face it – crying then driving LA freeways would cause anyone to pee. Then again driving LA freeways would cause anyone to cry. Anyway, as they quietly go about their business, each offers a nod and a smile of acknowledgement, the assumption being if I am in amongst them, I am clearly not one of the unwashed hoi polloi. I guess. The mood inside the hotel is Zen-like but fans are starting to spill off the ample Beverly Hills sidewalks into the streets causing more bursts of whistle blowing, horn honking and loudspeaker denouncements.
Paparazzi and fans alike push against the white block aides accented by 48 sparkling police motorcycles parked at a rakish angle against the curb lining Rodeo and El Camino. Three paramedic trucks and 20 squad cars (amber lights spinning and blinking) have hemmed in dazed cab drivers and the ensuing controlled chaos has even drawn the interest of hotel guest Henry Winkler. As the Jackson family emerge from one of the endless un-marked limos, camera crews dash and jostle for the money shot toppling stiletto’ed bystanders causing another round of whistle-blowing and annoyed tossing of blond tresses.
A “Star Tours” bus rolls by with waving occupants all sporting a single white glove. Clearly, this driver will be expecting a handsome round of tips.
Within 45 minutes, the guests settle into the ballroom and the bicycle-mounted police continue to disperse the cell phone camera-toting masses hoping to restore some semblance of control until the party lets out later…. this afternoon? Evening? Well, at least this portion of the day has air-conditioned bathrooms.
By 5:15 the final flurry of squealing fans is just beginning to die down as the last stretch (read UBERstretch) Excursion pulls out from the valet and police start breaking down the barriers. The entertainment industry must have come to a halt today with this 1000 member, high-voltage attendance, yet all present seemed to be sans ego; carrying out red rose centerpieces, it almost seemed as if a wedding party styled by Esquire was dispersing.
Wesley Snipes calmly waited in the valet line along with Jamie Foxx and Cory Feldman – who was dressed in a rather disturbing MJ homage. Jesse Jackson admired Lil’ Kim’s paws. Awaiting the traffic light, the Rev. Al Sharpton smiled, chatted and shook hands with the crowd from his car on the corner of Wilshire and Rodeo while camera crews raced dragging cables, lights and sound techs from right to left and back again across our door front hoping to snag the next A-lister. Guests branded with the special “sparkle” wrist band came and went in various degrees of dress – or rather, un-dress. Slippy off-the-shoulder t-shirts and mini’s mingled with satiny cocktail frippery while the men dazzled in trim, tailored perfection punctuated with snappy ties and chapeaus. And then there was Cory Feldman.
As yet another blacked-out Escalade rounded the corner, a tangle of tweens started running and screaming “WE LOVE YOU” – the car slowed, the window rolled down and a gracious Jennifer Hudson smiled and waved. Given that the ink on this deal barely dried hours before the first guest arrived, the calm and coordination executed by the hotel and the various police departments was a study of textbook perfection. Hotel staffers marveled at the grace of the guests, reflecting perhaps on the gentle spirit of the man they spent the day remembering. Whether it was the influence of MJ’s essence or the yummy overstuffed lunch that soothed the normally savage Hollywood beasts, all were contemplative and serene as they drove back to their private realities.
Lingering die-hard fans waiting to pay respects to the family never knew they were escorted out through the hotel’s basement allowing for a small moment of privacy in an overwhelming media-intense day.
Most telling, I suppose was the lack of honking horns. Notorious for their impatience, Beverly Hills drivers exhibited a collective calm and offered a tiny respite from their daily ignorance of anger management. The spectacle was slightly surreal–maybe even sprinkled with a pouch full of Tinkerbell’s fairy dust. And if you don’t believe that, then maybe you need a little vacation in a land far, far away….
BEVERLY HILLS COURIER July 2009